sanctuary

burns in the midst of a divine spring day
because grandma is dying in the blue room,
and over sweet rice and spice
a bronzed tribe argues about the will.
We kiss her wrinkled leather forehead goodbye,
and let our eyes linger for a moment after,
but comatose eyes stay closed,
and I try to remember that once
when those eyes weren’t silk gray with age,
and coated with the glisten of sorrow,
they were as bright as the sun over the Arabian Sea.
This house was once a temple,
deities with
a thousand deaf voices striking against marble flooring,
but now there is a big splatter of juice on the living room sofa
because grandma is dying in the blue room.
Our lips are pushed together, trying to contain
the sandstorms brewing in the backs of our throats,
voices warbling with the tension of rivers
in monsoon season.
Fire is sacred to us
so we don white:
blistering hot purity.
But we are burning–
smoke pulling at my vision, pulling at my eyes,
embers littering the kitchen floor
where we once fellowshipped.

Outside, pink bleeding hearts bloom in full,
and I wonder if she planted them there because she knew
we were all leaching out together,
our gums soaked with the same blood.
What will remain of this lineage
when grandma is done dying in the blue room?

Artwork Courtesy of Reda Khalil